In the Maestro’s ante-room, an endless procession of people filed in and out. Then I was called into his study. The festival director was, of course, Gian Carlo Menotti, the Italian-American composer. I told him I was a NIDA graduate and that I had directed several plays, including experimental multimedia works. I believed totally in the power of art to change people’s lives and said that I must have a job at his festival – anything he could offer me.

I remember well Menotti’s response:

Of course you must come to work, this is why I create a festival, for young artists like you. There is no better place for you to learn your craft. This festival really is for artists. We bring them together to open possibilities for them to explore in new collaborations. You know I invite great artists in all different fields to come to Spoleto to work together, to inspire each other. Artists are usually so isolated from one another. Everyone is caught up in their own little worlds, don’t you think? For example, composers do not often come together with sculptors. However, this year Henry Moore will come, he has designed the sets for Mozart’s Don Giovanni, marvellous eh! Poets from the USA and Russia will read together. Theatre companies from Off-Broadway and London are coming. There will be chamber concerts every afternoon. That’s how it is in Spoleto during the festival.

I think it would be best for you to work as one of my assistants. You will be on call day and night for any task I might need you to do. Now your interest is clearly experimental theatre, so you will work with incoming directors who need an assistant. I can offer you a room in a shared apartment with other festival staff and a small wage. What do you say?

Within a few days, I began work in the Teatrino at Spoleto. I took rehearsals of a Pinter play for the director John Cox while he returned to London, then worked with Ed Parone, director of The Dutchman, by Leroi Jones, a fierce account of sexual intrigue and racism, performed with its original Off-Broadway cast.

Then John Butler of the American Dance Theatre required an assistant. Butler had choreographed a new ballet Il Testament to a rather sparse oriental score of the same name. The work was to be given its world premiere at the festival. The company was in the final round of rehearsals when I received a call from Menotti: the Maestro who had composed the score for the new ballet had arrived to attend a special dress rehearsal. Il Testament would be performed for him that afternoon. Since he was rather frail, I was to collect him at the Palazzo and accompany him to the rehearsal. I was told to look after him with great care then accompany him to Menotti’s residence after the performance.

As I approached, I saw an elderly, dramatic man leaning on his cane, with a mass of wiry white hair underneath a large black hat. He wore a large black coat. I suddenly realised that Ezra Pound was being placed in my care. He fixed me with a sharp eye. I greeted him in my best Italian, then we walked slowly across the piazza to the Teatro.

As soon as Pound was comfortably seated in the red box, the lights were dimmed and the orchestra began to play his score. He leant forward, placing his arms on the velvet balustrade, which took the weight of his frame. He sat without further movement, listening intently, watching the dancers.

The performance over, the house lights came up. The baroque Teatro was alive with expectation. The dancers walked to the edge of the stage, while the conductor and members of the orchestra seated below awaited the Maestro’s verdict. All eyes were on Pound as the tall figure of John Butler approached his velvet box. Looking up towards Pound, Butler said, ‘Well, Maestro, what do you think, are you satisfied?’ Silence. Suddenly, Ezra leant forward, his craggy, long-fingered right hand reaching down towards Butler. In one graceful movement, Pound grabbed Butler’s hand and lifted it to his own ancient face. Pound tilted his own face onto the choreographer’s hand and rested it there as his tears fell. Pound’s tears echoed the traces of his music. The entire company broke down and eventually burst into applause. Then Pound released Butler’s hand. He was ready. I escorted him across the piazza. Not a word had passed between us. Charles Olson was at Spoleto, too. He saw Pound and wrote: ‘It was very beautiful the way the fierceness of Pound had settled down into a voiceless thing.’

Early one evening, I sat in the festival café with Daniella Panelli, Allen Ginsberg’s Italian publisher. This café opened onto the piazza opposite the Teatro. This was a meeting place. Artists could get a cheap meal there pretty well anytime, day or night, between rehearsals and performances. Daniella had come to Spoleto to meet up with Ginsberg, as he was reading at the festival. He had arrived that afternoon. Soon Ginsberg appeared, descending the steps into the piazza. He was wearing flowing Indian robes and prayer beads, and he was carrying a harmonium. He was energetic and friendly, clearly pleased to be there. Warmly greeted in the café, he responded by asking if we’d all like to hear a reading – right now? Si, certo was the response. Allen began chanting Blake’s Songs of Innocence, accompanying himself on the harmonium: ‘and all the hills echo … ed / and all the hills echo ... ed.’ Then, in the fading afternoon light, on the steps of the piazza, he launched into a performance of Howl:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the Negro streets at dawn, looking for an angry fix, angel headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection …

Everyone in the café listened raptly. It’s difficult to recall how far he got. Then, jarringly, we heard an Italian woman yelling from her window above the piazza. Three carabinieri in full uniform, complete with red-feathered caps, quickly entered the piazza and seized Ginsberg. Allen did not stop his recital. His voice boomed out as they carried him away up the steps without explanation. They took him to the town jail at the foot of the hill.

The café was in uproar. It was all so outrageous, so unexpected. Some people followed Allen, loudly protesting to the police; others stood on chairs booing and demanding action. Everyone decided that all work on the festival would cease until Ginsberg was released.

Daniella asked if I knew where Maestro Menotti was. I did. We raced up the steep hill to his palazzo to seek his immediate intervention. Menotti’s assistant, Franco, a calm man, had just got off the phone when we entered the study. He knew the situation. Some Catholic women who lived above the piazza had taken offence at Allen’s language and had called the police. Menotti agreed that it was stupid and infuriating. Now what were we to do about it? ‘Ah,’ he said, his sense of the absurd intact, ‘of course there will be no festival until Allen Ginsberg is released. We must get him out immediately. Franco, what shall we do? Should I call the Pope?’ We all collapsed with laughter. It was so ridiculous.

Franco got the festival’s lawyer on the telephone and asked him to go directly to the police station. Menotti was highly respected, not only as the festival director but as a Patron of Spoleto. Each year, for eight months, this town was quiet, like a ghost town until the rehearsals began. Then, during the festival, it was a thriving citadel of art. Menotti called the chief of police and demanded an explanation. His displeasure was obvious. If his distinguished guests could not enjoy freedom of expression in Spoleto, he would have to close down the festival and take it somewhere else.

We all awaited the official response. At last, the lawyer returned from the police station. It was pandemonium there, with supporters calling out ‘Free Allen Ginsberg’ in several languages.

We were to go to the police station right away. The carabiniere needed help to write his report. We raced down to the station where a rather bewildered, middle-aged policeman was typing with two fingers on an antique Olivetti. Of course, his report had to be prepared in triplicate. Daniella was up to the task. She recounted to the policeman Allen Ginsberg’s literary history, his publications on three continents, the strength of his international reputation. She then gave an account of the impromptu reading of Howl, his major work. The police station was now full of supporters as each torturous sentence dictated by Daniella to the policeman was tapped out in triplicate.

By midnight, Ginsberg was free. There was applause and embraces all around. We all went triumphantly up the hill and celebrated until dawn.

Who knows what triggers the memory? In May this year, after the launch of Robert Adamson’s Mulberry Leaves at the Sydney Writers’ Festival, Paper Bark Press invited thirty poets, artists, and friends to dinner. During the dinner, I related these events to Peter Rose, Simon Armitage, and Chris Edwards. It is at Peter’s request that I record them now.